Where the side-hawk bends

 And you might have heard

of the terrible bird

called a side-hawk (to those in the know)

With terrestrial flair

and a mane that's quite bare,

known to talk (if it lands in the snow)

And true, it's quite rare,

for this bird's affair,

to find comfort between sidewalk and street

Its secret, of note:

it's a shifter, a bloke,

who spends half of its time quite discrete

You'd not recognize,

in diminutive size,

the absence of quite bloodied claws 

For, instead of a beak,

at the strongest, his peak,

has a form that's less muscle, more straws

And if you would follow,

the meeker and smaller,

he'd show you how his transitional bends

Are painful to see,

in his eyes there's no glee,

and each change, to his form, fully rends

But if you are there,

and lay your soul bare,

you'll learn of the secrets he knows

He hails from the place,

where sidewalk ends grace

the chalk-work of small girl, boys, and crows

So I hope that one day,

in the usual way,

you can learn where the sidewalk ends

And can recognize,

and pause, to surmise,

we can both meet together as friends